Outlaw Mountain

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the way back to Butch’s house and at Jenny’s insistence, Joanna ate a single piece of pizza. Butch came out to the carport to greet them as Jenny scrambled out of the Blazer and darted into the house, calling Junior’s name as she went.

“What’s going on?” Butch asked.

Joanna told him, “See there,” he said when she finished. “You don’t want a husband; you just want a baby-sitter.”

The phone call from Carmen Flores had erased all Joanna’s playfulness. “If it’s a problem, Butch, I can take her to Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s.”

“Come on, Joanna. I was teasing. You know Jenny’s welcome to stay here. How long do you think you’ll be?” “I don’t know.”

“Since tomorrow’s a school day, why don’t Junior and I give Jenny a ride out to the ranch a little later. That way, he can meet the animals, and Jenny can get to bed at a halfway decent hour.”

“It might be late,” Joanna hedged. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. It’s fine. Junior and I don’t have school tomorrow. It won’t matter if we get in late.”

“All right then,” Joanna said. “I’ll see you out at High Lonesome later on.” She put the Blazer in gear and started to back away.

“Did you tell her?” Butch asked, pacing beside the Blazer down the driveway.

“I didn’t have time. The call came in and-”

“It’s okay. You’ll have another chance. In the meantime, 1’11 do my best to keep her out of your mother’s clutches.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said.

On the way uptown from Butch’s Saginaw neighborhood, Joanna used her cell phone in an attempt to call both Mark Childers and Karen Brainard. When there was no answer at either place, Joanna’s sense of unease heightened. Her next call was to Dispatch, where Tica Romero was on duty. Joanna gave the dispatcher both names and phone numbers. “I don’t have the addresses, but I’m sure you can get them. I want officers sent to each address to check things out.”

“Any idea of what they should be looking for?” Tica asked.

Joanna was afraid she did know-a possible kidnapping and/or homicide. Maybe even two. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Signs of struggle, maybe. Warn the investigating officers to be careful. Have them keep a lookout for a silver Taurus station wagon that belongs to Lewis Flores. Run a DMV check and broadcast the license. Flores is to be considered armed and dangerous.”

Tica seemed stunned. “Are we talking about the same Lewis Flores I know?” she asked. “The one from O.K. Street up in Old Bisbee?”

“That’s him,” Joanna said. “He’s been caught in the middle of this Oak Vista controversy. After the board of supervisors took him to task yesterday, I’m afraid he may have gone off the deep end. He may be out to get Childers or Brainard, or he may end up taking his frustrations out on himself.”

“Armed and dangerous,” Tica repeated. “And maybe suicidal to boot.”

“That just about covers it,” Joanna said.

Parking on O.K. Street and setting the emergency brake against the steep incline, Joanna climbed out of the Blazer. Next to a narrow concrete stairway marked “ 116” was a sturdy wooden lean-to that passed as a garage. Inside was a blue Ford Escort, but a silver Taurus station wagon was nowhere in sight.

Climbing the flight of thirty-two steep stairs took stamina. Joanna was breathless by the time she reached the top and found herself standing in a postage-stamp-sized yard perched on the flank of the mountain. Inside the yard stood a small frame house. Carmen Flores came to the door before Joanna raised her hand to knock.

“Come in,” she said. “Lewis still isn’t here.”

“Have you found a note or anything that might give us a clue about what he’s up to or where he went?”

Carmen shook her head. “Nothing,” she said.

“Can you tell what he was wearing?”

“His work clothes are all in the closet. I checked.” “He goes hunting, doesn’t he?” Joanna asked.

Carmen’s face suddenly brightened. “Maybe that’s it,” she offered eagerly. “It’s whitetail season right now, isn’t it? That’s probably what happened. Lewis went hunting and just forgot to tell me about it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that on my own.”

The woman seemed to be grasping at straws, but Joanna didn’t want to be responsible for snatching away Carmen Flores’ last vestige of hope. “Where does he keep his limiting gear?” Joanna asked.

“In a little shed out back,” Carmen said. “I It, keeps every thing out there in a trunk except for his guns. Not as much clutter that way. Come on. I’ll show you.”

The shed out back had an open padlock hanging from a hasp. Inside was an empty steamer trunk. “See there?” Carmen said triumphantly. “It’s all gone-his vest, boots, cap, everything. I’m sure one of his buddies must have called to invite him on a hunting trip, and he didn’t have time to let me know.”

“Doesn’t he carry a cell phone?” Joanna asked.

“He left it home or else he forgot it,” Carmen said. “He does that sometimes. I found it just a little while ago, still on the kitchen counter, sitting in its charger.”

Joanna was sure the phone had been left behind deliberately, and she was equally convinced that the hunting trip Lewis Flores was on had nothing to do with whitetail deer. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell Carmen Flores what she feared to be the truth. Not just yet. She also knew she couldn’t afford to wait around the Floreses’ house to find out if she was right. Too many lives were at stake.

“I’ll tell you what,” Joanna said as she watched Carmen carefully replace the lid on Lewis’ empty steamer trunk. “Why don’t I leave you to handle things here. I have one or two other matters to clear up. Is there anyone who could come stay here with you tonight-your folks, maybe?”

Carmen shook her head. “Mother can’t get up and down the stairs anymore. That’s why she and Daddy moved out of the house to begin with. I might call my sister, though. Rose could probably come over. But really, there’s no need. I’m sure Lewis is out hunting. Just wait. He’ll turn up around midnight with a big buck strapped to the luggage rack. I’ll spend the whole weekend making tamales.”

“All the same,” Joanna insisted, “I think you’d better have someone here with you.”

“Okay,” Carmen agreed. “I’ll call Rose and see if she can stop by.”

Mulling over what to do next, Joanna made her way down the long stairway. As soon as she was back in the Blazer, she called Tica on the radio. “What’s the word?”

“I got those two addresses and dispatched deputies to both. They reported that no one answered the door at either place. There were no lights on and no sign of struggle, but the afternoon papers were still in the driveways.”

“Afternoon but not morning,” Joanna observed.

“Right.”

“That probably means both Brainard and Childers were home this morning, but they haven’t come back tonight. Are the deputies still there?”

“Yes.”

“Have them check with neighbors and see what time Childers and Brainard usually arrive home. Also have them ask if there have been any unusual goings-on around either address earlier today.”

“Where will you be?” Tica asked.

“In the car. I’m going to head on out to Sierra Vista myself. I have a bad feeling about this one, Tica. Flores went out dressed to go hunting, but I’m afraid he isn’t looking for white-tail deer. Where’s Dick Voland, by the way?”

“He called in a little while ago after he and the other deputies left Oak Vista. He said he was going home and to call him only in case of a crisis.”

“Nothing happened out there today?” Joanna asked.

“Nothing at all,” Tica responded. “The monkey wrenchers didn’t show. Once Chief Deputy Voland told me he was taking the rest of the evening off, I put Frank Montoya on notice that he’s on call. He’s standing by his radio.”

“Can you patch me through to him?”

“Sure. Hang on.”

Seconds later, Frank Montoya’s voice came through the radio. “Glad to hear from you,” he said. “I was just going to give you a call. It took me most of the afternoon, but I finally managed to track down that Becker stuff. Want to hear it now or later?”

“Go ahead.”

“Jonathan Becker was a police officer in North Las Vegas. It’s a separate entity from Las Vegas proper, sort of like the city of Tucson and South Tucson. Becker had put in eighteen years when his son signed on as a rookie. The son and some of the other North Vegas cops got caught up in some bad stuff. What the son thought was a sting turned out to be the real thing. The kid went to his dad and told Becker what he was into. There was a big internal-affairs investigation and supposedly the kid was going to break blue and testify. Before that happened, though, he was found dead, floating face-down along the shores of Lake Mead. After that the IA investigation went nowhere, and the other dirty cops skated.

“Sometime after that, Becker quit the force and went after the other guys on a freelance basis. He finally found out enough that he was able to blow the whistle on them. They fought fire with fire and tried to frame him for attempted murder. That’s where the conspiracy-to-commit deal came from. He was picked up, arrested, printed, but never charged. The next thing anybody knew, the Internal Affairs investigation was reinstated. Four officers in all left the force. Two of the dirty cops went to prison for murdering Becker’s son after Jonathan Becker testified against them in court. Shortly after their guilty verdicts, Becker reportedly died in that one-car roll-over. According to the obituaries, his remains were cremated. There was a memorial service for him in Kingman, his hometown.”

Frank paused. “That’s it?” Joanna asked.

“That’s it. What does it sound like to you?”

“Phony as a three-dollar bill,” Joanna replied. “My guess is he disappeared into the Federal Witness Protection Program.”

“Bingo,” Frank agreed. “And that’s what I’ve been doing all evening-pulling strings to find out whether or not that’s what happened. It turns out we’re right. Becker went into the program and stayed for the better part of a year. Then he let himself right back out again-a little over a year ago.”

“Which is about the time Farley Adams showed up in Tombstone. That means he’s pulled two disappearing acts instead of just one.”

“If you take what happened Sunday into consideration,” Frank said, “it sounds more like three.”

“Let’s go back to the Witness Protection Program. Don’t they pull prints once someone goes undercover?”

“Usually. At least, they’re supposed to. I’m guessing, though, that some wise-ass up in North Las Vegas-one of the dirty cops’ pals-figured things the same way we did-that the Feds were hiding him. Whoever it was had enough pull to put Becker’s prints back into circulation on the off-chance that one day Becker’s prints would show back up in the system.”

“And now they have,” Joanna mused. “When Alice Rogers turned up missing, he must have realized that we’d come to him looking for answers. He also knew that if we did even the most limited of background checks, it would lead to more and more questions. And straight back to North Las Vegas, where someone is still harboring a grudge and looking to kill him. Which brings us right back to the mysterious Detective Garfield.”

“Exactly.”

“So here we have someone who was once suspected of conspiracy to commit murder. That might make him prime-suspect material in this case, but the problem is, he didn’t take off until after you and Susan Jenkins came to see him. Which means that until you both showed up, he probably didn’t have an idea that anything was wrong.”

“Which would mean that he isn’t our killer after all.”

“May not be our killer,” Joanna corrected. “But even if he himself didn’t kill Alice Rogers, he may know something that would help lead us to whoever did. And we have to find him before someone else gets to him first. Or else we have to find Detective Garfield.”

“Did the call to Casey come in through the regular switchboard?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, then,” Frank said. “How about if I work with the phone company and try to find out where that call came from?”

“Can you make inquiries like that after hours?”

“Watch me,” Frank replied.

The radio was quiet for a moment as Joanna considered her next move. “Do that if you can,” she said at last. “In the meantime, we’ve got another problem.”

“I gathered that much from what Tica said. What’s going on?”

Joanna reeled off everything she knew as well as what she suspected concerning the disappearance of Lewis Flores. “What’s the next step then?” Frank asked when she finished. “If you’ve got deputies at both Childers’ house and at Brainard’s, what else is there to do?”

“I’m on my way out to Sierra Vista right now,” Joanna told him. “I want to talk to the deputies in person and find out what, if anything, they’ve discovered. If it goes bad, though, I’m going to need you on the double.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “I’ll stand by. Call if you need me.”

Going back to Tica, Joanna asked for detailed directions to the two houses in question. Karen Brainard lived near Huachuca City. Childers’ house, in Sierra Vista Estates, was far closer, so Joanna headed there first. She was about to turn off the highway when she was hit by a sudden stroke of inspiration. All of Lewis Flores’ difficulties seemed to stem from the controversy swirling around Oak Vista Estates. Maybe that’s where the answers lay as well.

Switching off her turn signal, Joanna continued on down Highway 92. At the entrance to Oak Vista, she found that a makeshift barbed-wire gate had been pulled across the road and stretched between the two upright posts of the cattle guard. There was a padlock hanging on a chain around one end of the gate, but when Joanna checked, she found it wasn’t fastened. If the lock was supposed to keep monkey wrenchers out, it wasn’t going to do much good left open.

Joanna opened the gate, drove across the cattle guard, then doused the Blazer’s lights and turned off the engine. “Tica,” she said into the radio. “I’m out at Oak Vista Estates right now. I’m stopped just inside the entrance, and I think I’d better have some backup.”

“I’ll get someone right there. What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure. The gate has a chain and a padlock, but it wasn’t fastened shut. I’m afraid someone may be here ahead of me.”

“The monkey wrenchers?” Tice asked.

“Maybe, but l don’t know. That’s why I want backup.”

“I’ll send the deputies who are already at Mark Childers’ house. They should be able to get to you in under ten minutes.”

“Have them come ASAP,” Joanna said. “But no lights or sirens. I don’t want to advertise our arrival.”

“Got it,” Tica said.

Joanna stepped out of her car. A raw autumn wind was blowing down off the Huachucas. Shivering against the cold, Joanna returned to the Blazer and pulled on her sheepskin jacket-the one with the bullet hole still in the pocket. Fingering that hole and remembering how the weapon she had carried there had once saved her life, Joanna pulled the Glock out of her small-of-the-back holster. She was just putting it in her pocket when she heard first one shot, then another and another. The shots were followed by something else-a woman’s terrified scream that floated down to Joanna carried on the icy wind. The sound of it raised the hairs on the back of her neck and sent her scrambling into the Blazer.

Waiting for backup to arrive was no longer an option. The deputies summoned from Mark Childers’ house were still minutes away. The terror and desperation in the woman’s scream left no margin for delay.

“Shots have been fired,” Joanna declared into her radio microphone. “I’m going in, Tica. Tell my backup to use the hell out of their sirens. I want Flores to know we’re coming. I want all of them to know we’re coming.”

With the gas pedal shoved to the floor and with her own siren screaming, Joanna tore up the freshly bladed road that wound uphill to the construction shack. And that’s where Joanna’s headlights zeroed in on a silver Taurus station wagon. Lewis Flores sat on the hood, leaning back against the wind-shield. One weapon lay across his lap. From a distance, Joanna couldn’t make out if he was holding the shotgun or the rifle, but it didn’t really matter. Either one of them was sufficiently lethal.

She parked, cut the lights, and opened the window, but she didn’t step out of the Blazer. If it came to a shoot-out, she wanted the benefit of whatever cover the engine block might provide.

“Lewis,” she called as she drew the heavy-duty Colt 2000 out of her shoulder holster. “That’s enough. Lay down your weapon.”

For an answer, Lewis Flores reached out. Joanna thought he was going for his other gun, which lay beside him on the hood. Instead, he picked up something else. By then Joanna’s eyes were adjusting to the lack of light and she was able to make out that he had picked up a bottle-a tequila bottle perhaps-and was taking a swig.

“Lewis.” Joanna tried to make her voice sound authoritative but calm. “More deputies are on their way. They’ll be here in a few minutes. You’ll be surrounded. Give up before someone gets hurt.”

“I already am hurt,” he said.

Joanna breathed deeply. She had him talking. That was a good sign. “Where are Mark Childers and Karen Brainard, Lewis? What have you done with them?”

There was a sudden pounding. It seemed to be coming from one of the Porta Potties. “I’m in here,” Karen Brainard yelled. “I’m locked in the toilet. He’s been shooting at me. He’s crazy. Get me out of here.”

Relief spilled over Joanna. At least one of the two was still alive, still safe. “Where’s Mark Childers?” she asked. “Why don’t you ask him?” Lewis responded.

But Joanna didn’t want to talk to Mark Childers. She didn’t want to take her focus off Lewis Flores. He was the one with the guns. “Why are you hurt, Lewis? What’s happened?”

“They lied to me,” Lewis answered. “They told me that it wouldn’t matter if the process got hurried up a little. They said they’d make it worth my while, and no one would care. But people do care, and as soon as there was trouble, they turned it all on me. Tried to make out that it was all my fault-all my responsibility.”

“That’s not true,” Karen responded from her prison. “We didn’t do any such thing, did we? Tell her, Mark. Tell Sheriff Brady that Lewis is lying.”

But if Mark Childers had anything to add to Karen Brainard’s denial, he wasn’t saying. In the distant background, Joanna heard the sound of at least one siren. Reinforcements were on their way. The cavalry was about to ride to the rescue.

“Please, Lewis,” she begged. “Think about Carmen. Put down your weapons. Move away from the car with your hands in the air.”

“I am thinking about Carmen,” Lewis Flores replied. “I was thinking about her and all those steps and her having to climb them every day. Of her having to carry groceries home just the way her mother did. I wanted a better place for her, something really nice. And Mark Childers was going to help me get it. But it’s not worth it. I finally figured that out. I’ve lost everything now-my job, my family, my self-respect. They’ve taken it all away.”

“You have to let us out of here,” Karen Brainard pleaded.

“He locked us in here, and he’s been using us for target practice. Please let us out.”

Half a mile away across the desert, a patrol car rumbled across the cattle guard and then roared up the roadway.

“Do you hear that, Lewis?” Joanna asked. “The other deputies are coming right now. Please, put down your weapon so no one gets hurt.”

His hand shot out again. Joanna thought he was reaching for the bottle again, which was out of her sight line on the other side of the hood. But what Lewis Flores raised to his lips that time wasn’t tequila. Joanna saw the flare of light as the gun was fired, heard the explosion, and saw him flop back-ward against the windshield.

“No!” she heard herself screaming as she ran toward the Taurus. “N0000000!” But Lewis Flores was dead long before she reached him.

“Oh, God. What’s he doing now?” Karen screeched. “Make him stop. He’s going to kill us. The man is crazy. He’s going to kill us all.”

Joanna stopped at the Taurus long enough to grab Lewis Flores’ limp wrist. Briefly her fingers searched for a nonexistent pulse. One look at the bloody carnage that had once been the back of Lewis Flores’ head told her there was nothing to do. Dropping his lifeless arm, Joanna raced to the line of Porta Potties just as a patrol car skidded to a stop behind her Blazer.

Unholstering his side arm, Deputy Dave Hollicker jumped out of the vehicle. “What’s the status, Sheriff Brady?”

By then Joanna was at the door to the Porta Potty. It wasn’t just closed. It had been nailed shut. The top of the door was riddled with bullet holes. From inside, she heard the sound of hysterical weeping.

“Bring a crowbar, Dave,” she ordered. “And make it quick. There’s one in the back of my Blazer.”

Leaving the first Porta Potty, Joanna went down the lint, until she found another one that had been nailed shut. Again, the top of the door was riddled with bullet holes. Lewis had been firing at the Porta Potties all right, but high enough not to hit anyone inside-scaring hell out of them but not necessarily trying to kill anyone.

“Mr. Childers,” Joanna called through the door. “Are you in there? Are you all right?”

There was no answer, not even a whimper. Behind her Joanna heard the sound of running footsteps and, off across the ghostly starlit grassland, another siren. Dave was headed toward the first Porta Potty, but Joanna stopped him.

“Open this one first,” she ordered. “The woman’s all right, but I’m not so sure about Mark Childers.”

It took several tries before Dave Hollicker finally pried open the door. When he did so, Mark Childers’ limp body cascaded out onto the ground.

“He may have been shot,” Joanna said, kneeling beside the stricken man and checking for a pulse. There was one. It was faint and erratic, but it existed. Nowhere on his body, however, was there any sign of blood.

“Call for an ambulance, Dave,” she said. “We’ll have to have him airlifted out of here. And bring blankets.” About that time Mark Childers’ pulse disappeared altogether. Without even thinking about it, Joanna began to administer CPR.

“Please,” Karen Brainard pleaded from her prison. “What are you doing? Can’t you let me out? What’s taking so long?”

Joanna wanted to tell the woman to shut up and wait, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. She was too busy concentrating on what she was doing-too busy keeping track of the rhythmic and life-saving breathing and pushing. In the end, Joanna didn’t have to say a word. Dave Hollicker did it for her.

“Quiet in there,” he yelled as he came racing back to Joanna’s side with an armload of blankets. “We’re trying to save a man’s life out here. Be patient. We’ll get to you in a minute.”